


Armed With a Burning Patience

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post Rako Hardeen Not Quite Dead Sex, Post-Rako Hardeen Arc (Star Wars: Clone Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: How she hears about his death, and how she mourns his loss is not important.The important thing is this: High General of the Grand Army of the Republic, and Jedi Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi...is not dead.And she has been lied to.Or TL;DR: After his miraculous resurrection from the assassination by Rako Hardeen, Satine waits for Obi-Wan to apologise...she may have to wait a very long time.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Armed With a Burning Patience

* * *

  
She hears the truth from the mouth of some holostar.

_Whom,_ in particular, she cannot say; _where_ is unimportant, and even _when_ blurs and shifts in her mind. She was in her rooms. No, she was in her court. She was sat upon her throne. She was among the masses. She was there, in the audience, when the interview occurred. 

None of it is very important.

The important thing is this: High General of the Grand Army of the Republic, and Jedi Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi...is not dead.

She has been lied to.

_“Have you heard the news from Capital City?”_

The news of his death had been more kindly delivered than that of his survival, and _that_ , she feels, means something she hasn’t the wherewithal to parse. Not now. 

_Then_ , Ahsoka had commed her. Her slight shoulders hung heavily, the slope of them narrowed and hunched, streamlined, as though the eddies of anguish and upset might slip over her, like wings in a windstream.

“I...I know you were close,” she said. “And I know Master Skywalker should to be the one to tell you this, but he’s...Master Kenobi has -”

_Now,_ she hears it as the set up for a punchline.

_“Have you heard the news from Capital City? They say a Jedi has come back from the dead.”_

_“Kriff! I wish I could say the same for my career!”_

There are so many Jedi, and so many deaths. But only one has come back. And it has to be hers.

She waits for him to call. She keeps her commlink open to all signals, and on her person. She keeps it in her hand. But no such message comes through. 

At night, she asks Maia if anything has been sent to her personal padd.

“No, ma’am,” she says, her eyes so round and sad that Satine can see her own pitiful reflection in them, and she turns away in contempt.

“No, of course,” she replies. “A silly question. I’m only very tired tonight.”

And Maia peels away the layers of her gown until she is paper thin, and quite translucent as her satin nightdress. She sleeps. She wakes. She waits, and hates herself for it.

Ahsoka calls, just once more. It’s short because she’s in the field, and her master needs her.

“I just wanted to make sure you’d heard,” she says. “I should have called, but things - Master Skywalker...I don’t understand why he would lie to us.”

She hangs her head, and Satine remembers how young she is. She thinks of Korkie, off at school, tucked safe and out of sight, and of the way he bowed his head and wept the day she told him he could not come home. 

“It was his duty,” she tells the girl, smiling, her shoulders thrown back and her hands clasped so tight she can feel the bones grind together. “We all do what we must.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Ahsoka murmurs, but her voice is fraught with resignation, not acceptance, and resignation is something Satine cannot countenance.

“You have a duty, as well,” she reminds the girl. “To your men. To your master. To your Order. Do not forget that. We _all_ do what we must. This is the way. You are a _Jedi_ , Ahsoka Tano. You are a Jedi. Do not give up. ”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and Satine sees some determination ratchet in the hinge of her jaw before she ends the call.

That same determination buttresses the sagging arch of her own spine, lifting her bearing in proud defiance of gravity’s grief, and with this scaffolding in place, she is able to survive the day. And the next one, too. She thinks of him, but she is disciplined, and he is silent, and so she is able to put him somewhere out of sight. He is like a fleeting shadow in the corner of her eye, but she keeps herself facing forward. 

Until, one day, sometime later - sometime, when she has become so practiced at denying him, his presence comes as a shock - she sees him standing outside her room, a pair of her Guard flanking him.

She looks at Vi’Tolan, and though she doesn’t speak, her protector can hear her disquiet.

“I granted his landing clearances,” she explains. “You said -”

Satine shakes her head, exhaling to clear her muddied thoughts.

“I did,” she confirms. “Thank you, Vi’Tolan. Please, if you would -”

“Of course, my Lady,” she says, and with a curt nod of instruction, she, and the two guards leave her alone with Obi-Wan.

The hall is empty, and their audience as private as anyone can expect, and he is standing there before her, alive, and well, and breathing, and she realises that she has nothing to say.

Nothing at all.

And by his silence, it seems that he has nothing either.

She sighs, and presses a hand to her face to cover her eyes. Perhaps, a moment out of sight will grant her the peace necessary for wisdom to come. She can still feel the weight of his gaze. His expectation has a near physical presence, as though he has manifested desire and restraint into some looming beast that stands just over her shoulder. It hunts her, and haunts him. Yet no solution comes in the privacy of her thoughts, and so, she straightens her shoulders and crosses into her room, knowing that, of course, he will follow.

Maia waits.

“My Lady Duchess -” she says, her shock at Satine being accompanied by such a man sending her to her feet at attention, but Satine dismisses her as easily as she had Vi’Tolan. Her mind is made up. Her voice is firm. Everything that happens from here on out is her decision.

“I should appreciate a quick attendance tonight, Maia,” she says, setting herself down at the wide vanity.

Maia’s mouth closes, and she hies swiftly to her mistress’ side. Deft fingers unclasp, and unpin, collecting the stiff rods into the palm of her hand. She works until the headpiece slips sideways over the Duchess’ brow, then catches it as it falls away. This done, Satine is free to pull off her rings, and remove her earrings, dropping them all with neither haste, nor care upon her table. They are heavy, and she is glad to be rid of them, though she doesn’t feel much lighter for their absence. Maia brushes her hair forward over one shoulder to undo the ribbon at the waist of her thick surcote, letting it hang forward, and as Satine pulls her arms free of this layer, Maia is quick to loosen the catches of the next. Her fine cherrinwork kirtle covers a loose smock but these are easy enough to doff on her own, so she shifts forward, away from Maia’s hands.

“Thank you, Maia,” she says, leaving the girl bereft. “That shall be all for this evening.”

She may be uncertain, but she is well trained, and demurs easily. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Her shimmerflax train murmurs softly, following her out the door, and then they are alone.

The mirror looks at what Satine cannot, and tells her that Obi-Wan remains just inside the door. He is tucked against the wall, his hands folded in his robes. He looks small. Diminished. Drowning in swaths of coarse fabric. This is not the glorious warrior she has seen on the holonet. This is not the shining ambassador of freedom. He wears none of the armour she has seen him in before - and why should he, when he is so inured to death as to be immune?

She sighs, and he catches her eye in the glass. It isn’t in her to break first, so she waits until he does, the resumes her ablutions. A single claricloth is sufficient to remove her makeup, but the face that emerges from beneath the paint is sallow and haunted. It shows nothing of how she feels, and so she scrubs at her cheeks until they are pink once more. Her eyes are cold, and her lips stay bloodless no matter how she bites at them.

Accepting that there is little she may improve upon, she rises to take off her dress. From the corner of her eye, she sees him step forward as well.

“No,” she says, and her voice is the same as her eyes - as distant and as cold - and he freezes.

The discarded pile of clothing is heaped upon the bench, out of sight of the mirror, and she walks to where he stands, shoulders back, and bare. She does not flinch, and at least he has the grace to meet her gaze and hold it. She stops when she is close enough to feel his breath upon her face. 

And it does not matter, but she thinks it is she who moves first.

Their mouths meet, open but empty of any thought, and her lip, already punished with her own worry, splits against his teeth. His hands are on her shoulders, then braced against the back of her head, while the other slides down the curve of her spine, falling like rain, coursing over the swell of her flesh. He grabs at her fiercely, and she yields to his grip, bending against him, swallowed by his robes, but the cloth tangles at his wrists, and he shakes them, as though desperate to be free of the web of some great terror.

She pulls back to push the cloak over his shoulders, to fumble at his belt as he throws the robe aside. Together, they tear off his tabards, and she lifts the fitted sark over his head, while he stares up at her, dazed, his eyes starry and she looks away to see the tunic adequately tossed aside. She kisses him again, before he can speak, though he doesn’t seem inclined to. Instead, he leans in, his tongue slipping over hers to trace the roof of her mouth, even as he stumbles forward caught in the shackles of his trousers, and his boots. They, too, are eventually lost, and they are left trying to peel the skin from each others’ bones.

She claws at his waist. Her fingers catch in his hair, and she surges forward, hungry, even as the weight of his desire drives her back, until at last, overcome, he lifts her from the ground, her legs flying up to cling at his hips, his cock hard and aching below her thigh.

The bed is before them in an instant, and he staggers forward as his legs slam against it. His arms fly out to brace for a fall that cannot happen, but which his body fears, nonetheless, and seeks to save him from. But she does not let go.

He comes down hard upon her. The softness of the bed gives way at her back, while his chest, stained with the heat of his desire, presses down on her. She pulls him closer, holds him tighter, eager, hopeful that he might crush her completely. He cannot be too close to her, and it does not take much to persuade him to relent. He is nothing if not obedient. 

She gasps, and he - still devouring - moves to kiss her neck, nipping at the skin, and licking a wet stripe along the line of her jaw to the point where it meets at the lobe of her ear. His teeth are sharp, and his beard coarse. Together, they leave red marks against the pallor of her flesh, and they are blushing together. Then, he rises again. His hands frame her face, sweeping aside her hair as he seeks to touch the fragile arc of her cheeks with the tips of his fingers, and his palms. He presses a kiss to her brow, and it is almost tender. She desires no such reverence.

And so, while his lips are still upon her, in an address far sweeter than she thinks he’s ever tendered in negotiations before, she reaches between them to take his length in hand. A rough sound is wrenched from his lips, and for a moment the heel of his chin digs in against her scalp. If she had thought him willing before, now he becomes absolutely pliant beneath her touch. His head falls to her shoulder, and his breath is loud in her ear. 

“Hush,” she murmurs, and again he obeys. _So good_ , she thinks, and her praise is expressed in the glide of her hand over the length of his cock. His reward is in the pump of her fist, but for all that he is dutiful, he is also bold, and though he chokes back his cries in the curve of her neck, he brings his own hand up to cup her left breast, taking that pleasure for himself.

And she gives it. She forces it upon him. _Take it_ , she thinks, as she arcs up against his hand. _Take it,_ she thinks, as she draws her hand down, then up, then down again. “Take me,” she says, low, in his ear. There is something feral in her voice. She feels savage, and wanton, and full of rage.

Whatever wildness is in her, he must hear it because he turns to look at her. His eyes glitter in the dark, his mouth swollen, his lips glisten with the sheen stolen from her own mouth, and she draws him closer to take it back. His lower lips catches between her teeth, and she tugs. She drags her thumb over the head of his cock, tracing the swell of sensitive skin, feeling her fingers slick with precome, hearing him keen and fight against his own voice while wanting more, and she bites down until she tastes blood. This time, it’s his, and with it spilled on either side, she thinks of war and fury, and how they are now bonded in battle. This is the way, and though it is not _her_ way, she still owns the path. By title. By right. By blood.

His hand tenses over her breast, and she will bruise, she knows, but that thought is almost as delicious as the bite of his fingers as he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls. 

“Stars!” she says, the word torn from her by force. She releases him only to clutch him close again, pressing his head to her collarbone, pressing him down. Soft strands of hair stick to her hands, wet with sweat, wet with him, clinging to the crevices of her body like she clings to him. 

This whimsy, while sweet, dies swiftly upon the awn of the next moment as his tongue darts forth to tease at the rosy bud of her tit. His mouth, hot and wet, closes over her a moment later, and he suckles, while one hand drift low over her hips, and lower still to dip between the hot folds of her sex.

He touches her. First, there are just gentle strokes, and he moves from the hood of her clit, outward to her thigh grazing his clever fingers just barely across the skin of her inner thigh. Closer, then further away, then returning again, and it teases her like the sunlight of a breaking dawn. He slips the tip of one finger into the velvet grip of her entrance, then withdraws, dancing away to compass her centre again, and she knows that his confidence comes from memory, not practice. This is _her_ body he recalls. This is _her_ desire he stokes, and there is a greedy, vengeful part of her that delights in the fact that he has thought of no other, for none of _their_ preferences are painted on her skin with his hands. 

She grins in triumph, and urges his head lower still. And so he goes.

Her thighs fall open to greet his arrival, and his tongue replaces the rough ministrations of his fingers. Here, there is a feast to sate his hunger, and she welcomes him to take as much as he desires. With such a bounty laid bare before him, he does what all the wisest diplomats have done: first, he surveys the land, and then, with the guidance of an educated palate he tastes of every morsel that he might find the ripest fruits, and savour the richness of their flavour. He licks, and tastes, and as her breaths grow fast, and fall to frantic, he consumes her utterly. And as she feels the pinching crest of pleasure build, she looks down to admire the sight of this man, framed in the crescent of her legs.

He is with her, and looks up to watch as he takes her over the edge. She never swore obedience, and she will not be silent, the guttural cry of release still clinging to her lips as he creeps up over her to silence her with a kiss. She can taste herself upon his tongue, and she wonders if he thinks she tastes as sweet - but he must, for he is just as covetous of her essence as she. 

And then, her hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, she draws him back to issue her final command.

“Fuck me,” she says.

He slips into her in a single thrust, sensing her impatience. His next is more tentative, gauging depth as though afraid he may have misjudged her readiness or his position. But she is certain. She slides herself downwards against his length before he can press again, meeting him halfway and breaking the rhythm of tempered consideration he’d intended before he can even commit. 

“Hard,” she urges, driving him deeper. “ _Harder.”_

And once again, he obeys.

“Harder,” she pants out with every thrust. _Hurt me_ , she thinks with every beat of her racing heart. 

His pace increases, urged forward like an unbroken fathier, and she the bit and bridle which gives fashion to his lust. He wraps a hand over her hip, leaving marks, and beats his desire against the bones of her pelvis, and that too will leave her bruised and aching tomorrow. It is what she wants - to be stained purple with the evidence of his existence, to be rubbed raw by his hair against the rash of her skin, to mirror the blue of his thirsty eye, to taste his blood, to feel that once he wanted, and she was there to grant him all she could. She needs to know that this is real. She can’t simply _believe_ it.

So she pushes him to go faster, to take her harder, to drive deeper, until her arms are braced against the headboard, and he cries out, spilling hot and thoughtless inside of her.

And then, when he is spent, she wraps him in her arms, and presses him to her chest, the salt of their sweat mingling with the salt of his tears, but she does not cry. Instead, she whispers cold comfort in his ear.

“I missed you,” she says. “I mourned you. I think I always will.”

And he, his eyes red and blue and black, his hair falling thick across his brow, lifts his head to look at her.

“Please, don’t,” he says, an orison so soft it leaves a mark upon her skin.

But that is only yet another proof for her to keep, and think on when he leaves. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
